Page 5 of Through Quick and Quinn
Some kid named Brandon earned that look.
“What the heck, Mom? I’m sick of hearing about your stupid job and your stupid kids. Why the hell can’t we talk about anything else? Something real for once? So because you somehow graduated from therapy and we moved houses, we just fake our way through life now? What about Troy? What about me?” There was so much rage behind the questions, which was quickly fueled even more by her response.
“Please do not curse. There are plenty of clean words to help you express yourself,” she calmly announced as she swept up our plates and headed to the kitchen.
Dad told me later that he could see my fury about to erupt, which was why he suddenly swept me up, grabbed his keys, and carried me out the front door.
He drove in silence. I sat with my arms crossed, seething in self-pity, occasionally mumbling under my breath and more than occasionally taking it out on the car with my feet and fists. Still, he drove in silence.
When we arrived at the bookstore, I made it abundantly clear that I had zero intention of going in. Dad calmly walked around to the passenger door, opened it, and offered me his hand. His silence and his patience outlasted my refusal, and I finally, begrudgingly, flopped my hand onto his. Without a word, we walked into the bookstore and he guided me directly towards the back to an area I had never seen before. There were sections of books on self-care, spirituality, gardening, and other topics that I honestly did not even realize existed.
He turned to me, cradled my face in his hands, and locked his tear-filled eyes with mine. He said three simple words, three words which I carried with me for years and years to come: “Feel. Deal. Heal.”
He walked away and left me standing there with tears streaming down my long face, my eyes blinking in a bizarre mix of confusion and comprehension. I stared at his retreating form and then watched him settle into a worn couch, getting comfortable for what he clearly thought would be a long evening. He caught my gaze and winked, and I felt a rush of warm love wash over me. Calmness spread, and along with it, a new type of curiosity. I inherently understood that I was on a mission, and I instantly became intrigued with an overwhelming intent to figure out exactly what that mission entailed.
As though a participant in some sort of bookstore marathon, I perused shelf after shelf of eclectic literature. I made a conscious effort to overcome my discomfort with sections about which I knew nothing, allowing my fingers to do the walking and all the while hearing my dad’s words in my head. It was a mantra of sorts, and I was determined to find something in those shelves that was just for me, something that would help me feel and deal so I could heal. It was the most open-minded I had ever felt up to that point, and I acknowledged that I felt older, more mature. I was suddenly ready to embark upon a new journey.
I meandered into a section of books with photographs of rocks and for a moment, I thought I was in the geology section. With a closer look and the absorption of the titles, I realized that wasn’t where I was at all. I was surrounded by books on crystals and energy codes, on mindfulness and chakra alignment. Enthralled, I feverishly flipped through book after book, reading chapter titles, taking in graphics, and subconsciously making a stack of books on the floor beside me. I was completely entrenched in that curious realm and when the intercom screeched the store’s closing time, I was so startled I knocked over my stack.
“How many are we getting? One? Two? All of them?” My dad grinned as he took in the scene. He was hovering over me as I was sprawled out in the aisle, books all around me begging to be taken home. I simply smiled at him, and we both simultaneously ascertained that we would meet our shared goal: I was going to be okay.
He bought me every single book I wanted that night. He didn’t utter one word about the literature section that ended up calling to me. Even though he didn’t understand the first thing about chakras or stones, or how that could possibly help with my healing journey, his unconditional support was so strong it was palpable.
I spent the rest of that evening at home immersed in a mindfulness book. I figured that was the easiest thing to tackle, since I was an amateur. That evening turned into a week and then a month, and before I knew it sixth grade was coming to a close. My friendship with Mandy had settled into a routine within the school walls, as we stopped hanging out on weekends and such. I tried sharing my new passions with her, but she would just roll her eyes and tell me that I was “weirding her out.” She sparked up some new friendships, which I was really okay with, and I continued to dive further into my studies. By seventh grade, I was meditating on a daily basis and working to align my chakras. I was journaling, I was grounding, I was smudging, I was releasing, I was growing.
I was healing.
By eighth grade, Mandy and I barely talked. She had a new best friend, Desiree, and they were constantly in one another’s company. It made me happy to see her laughing and carrying on with Desiree at school. I felt like our friendship underwent a natural detachment, and since I was not harboring any resentment or ill feelings, I was surprised to discover that she did. She made her feelings towards me crystal clear a month before graduation, when she wrote about me all over the school’s bathroom mirrors. Some mirrors included illustrations of cauldrons, others incorporated pointed black hats, but they all shared the same bold-faced title written in all capital letters: QUINN IS A WITCH!
+ + +
Hey,
Today was exhausting. I literally have no other word for it. I’m exhausted. Exhausted by all the basic, shallow people I have to walk by in the halls and listen to in class. Exhausted by their conversations about absolute nonsense. Do they not realize how many important things there are to discuss? No, they’d rather just talk about their lattes and so-and-so’s last post on whatever stupid social media platform.
Honestly, what exhausts me the most is the realization that today was only the first day of my next four years.
It’s been two and a half years since I’ve seen you, and that’s been a frickin’ eternity. I can’t even imagine what four years will feel like.
Think of you every minute. Love you.
-Deck
Monday, August 16, 2021
Dear Diary,
Dear Journal,
Note to self:
Well, I completed my first day of high school and I now have something like 719 days left. I figured I should probably start a new notebook here, since I will most likely be spending the next four years with… myself. Big shock.
It’s okay. I’m good with it. I don’t really belong in this high school scene, and I don’t really care to. I don’t see myself connecting with anyone at school, at least not on a deep level. I mean, really, who is going to want to talk with me about sound healing meditation anyway? Ugh, I don’t know how to make conversation with people about ordinary things and I don’t really have the desire to. Maybe I should work on that.
Do I wish that I could meet someone like me? Or at least someone open-minded enough to accept me? Yeah, of course I do. And maybe I will. Personally, I see that happening much later in life but hey, I could be wrong.
Let’s be honest, though. I may have some trust issues. Still working on figuring out that one.
